I feel so shy as you lay your eyes on me.
Even your gaze feels like a gentle caress, full of warmth and tenderness and pride. My initial instinct to hide fades away as I face you, my past and present bare to see. I know you’re imagining our future as you study me, smiling softly, your cheeks dimpling. I can feel the warmth of your breath on me. You lift your hand meticulously, gingerly, and I lean into your languid strokes. I’ve been yearning for your touch since the moment you last left me - it feels like you’re grasping the depths of my soul.
We’ve been seeing each other for months now, me and you. We both went into this endeavour blindly, unaware of how much time we’d be spending together, unaware of how this commitment would turn out. People often feel an initial fervor, but then another flight of fancy kindles within them and they drift off. But I’ve grown to know you well now, and I can tell that the tone you’re using today is darker than usual.
“James? How’s the painting coming?”
I’ve never seen this girl before; it’s the first time she’s walked into this room. She rests her hand on your shoulder, in the same way your hand brushes over me - affectionately. The intimacy comes naturally to her, a simple demonstration of how long she’s known you.
“It’s almost done. I’ve had a long day at work today… it’s so nice to come up here and just relax, you know? It’s like landscaping fabric into terrain,” James sighed as he rubbed his eyes. Even though he was tired, his deep voice remained vibrant. James always seemed lively to me, with so many ideas in his head that I could practically hear his brain whirring away as he faced me. I rarely got to hear his voice, but I loved listening to his rich baritone statements.
He carefully replaced the lid over the darkly-pigmented paints lying next to me, and he cleaned his paint brushes with devoted care. The only thing left was to replace the sheet over me, his canvas, and to switch off the lights.
The colours my artist had painted over me were muted without him next to me.